So what am I to do? Drive a new car for Chuck’s gang, make raids on lonely aimless nomads, run the car to its inevitable ruin, get a different car, make raids, ruin another car, another. I laugh suddenly. By his benign expression, I can see that Link accepts the laugh as pure logic. I remember Kay and what she said to me, how pale she looked, her love for Scotty. I picture Cora standing by the Mustang and, like a doctor who’s pulling the plug, shaking her head as if it’s no use. I see myself as a toothless old man, hunching by the roadside, begging rides, telling tall tales of my life as an adventurer, as an outlaw, as a piece of shit that once traveled the roads. I can’t do that. I can’t be that.
I’m not going back, Link, I say. At least not to the train and Chuck and that gang. I’m not going to play out your little outlaw fantasies either. I’m not going to even stay in California, I’m heading back east, I’m going where Cora is. And I’m not going to send the Mustang over any fucking cliff or any fucking hill of sand or into any Sargasso swimming pool. I just ain’t doin’ it. That’s all. I just ain’t doin’ it.
Link stares at me a long time. In the light from the old Merc, his face catches a lot of bizarre shadows. Then he smiles.
All right, he says. Okay. Okay with me. I like it.
He stands in front of me for what seems a long time, staring into my eyes. I realize that his face—his grotesque distorted face—now looks normal to me. It has not seemed strange to me for some time. I have not felt sorry for Link for some time. For some reason that’s good, I know, but I don’t know why the hell why. He reaches out the back of his hand and touches me lightly on the point of my chin.
Okay, he says again, then, abruptly, without looking back at me, he gets into the Merc, starts it almost before he’s settled into the driver seat, backs up, turns around, and drives off.
Hey, Link, I say, just before the Merc disappears into the darkness.
So here I am, leaning against the rear of the Mustang, no desire to move, glancing at the sand wrecks to the right of me, the decaying warning sign to the left of me. I’m no longer scared. I’m in no hurry to leave here.
Well, that’s not true. I am a little scared. I’m afraid I'll get into the Mustang, ready and eager to start my trek back east, and it won’t start. That is too much the way my life goes. I even begin to believe that it won’t start and I stay beside the car, enjoying the growing breeze and the smell and taste of salt in the air. Yeah, it probably won’t start.
It starts.
— 12 —
An afternoon in the care of the Mech and the Mustang looks, feels, sounds, complains like new. Well, maybe not looks, but definitely feels, sounds, and complains.
Even Emil, who lets me take him for a spin around the Savarin parking area, admits that a miracle has been wrought. For the Mech, the usual miracle.
Just don’t hunt rabbits with it, was the Mech’s parting shot when he returned the car to me, and I was pleased, hearing all the echoes of all the other times the Mech has said those words, or words very much like them, to me.
Want to go out on the Expressway with me? I ask Emil. His face goes ivory white.
No, this is a fine ride here. Fine. All the ride I need. Let’s go back to the coffee shop. I feel better there.
I smile, to let him know I was just joking anyway, and let the Mustang glide to a stop in front of the coffee shop door.
Emil sits still for a while, then says:
You’ve been good for this car, Lee. I suppose, not to get too silly about it, it’s been good for you.
I laugh.
Who knows, Emil, who knows?
Come in and have some coffee.
I think of his coffee and wonder if I could substitute a cup of percolated machine oil while he’s not looking. But, no, I have to drink it. I have to.
It’s very comfortable sitting again at the counter in Emil’s coffee shop. I’ve spent the better part of the last two days here, sitting here and giving Emil a rundown of my escapades out west. I have a tendency to exaggerate details. That’s all right, Emil doesn’t believe me anyway. Before our ride I told him of my trip back east. All the times the car almost gave out on me, all the little repairs done by all the lesser Mechs in repair shops across the country. I told Emil of trying to locate Kay and Scotty and Handles and the captain, and failing to find even a trace of them. I told Emil of my sneaking into the Wheeler camp and spying on Victor presenting an indoctrination lecture. In shiny well-pressed new clothes, Victor looked great. His manner had become milder, really professional, and he delivered the standard lecture with a chilling sincerity. He convinced me the Wheelers are really on their way to somewhere, and I don’t like thinking of that. I told Emil about my encounter with Lena, but I didn’t tell him all about my meeting with Lena. Sometimes the curtain has to be drawn. I told Emil how I set fire to two campersful of Wheeler literature. (He said it was an empty, somewhat Pyrrhic gesture. I didn’t care what he said. I liked burning pamphlets better than burning cars, I told him.) I told Emil how I parked the Mustang near the Ramada and stood outside the inn’s windows and watched Maria laughing with a group of her charges. It seemed like a long time since I’d called Maria and been told by her that her wound was healing well. She said then that she liked me, but please I should not try to see or talk to her again. She said Anton had gone through a transformation and was treating her like a wife again. Spying on her, I wished I could talk to her, at least say hello, but instead I let the glow around her smile tell me that she needed no help from the likes of me. Maria was all right.
Emil enjoyed hearing about my experiences out west. He said they reminded him of yams told around campfires.
I’m not lying, I said.
Not even about Chuck? he said.
What about Chuck?
Well, all the time you were with the gang, Chuck was showing up here regularly, here at the Savarin, usually at twelve o’clock at night, usually just looking in and not saying much.
C’mon, Emil, who’s spinning yarns now?
One of us maybe. Maybe neither one. I’ll ask Chuck about it, next time I see him.
You do that. You just do that.
It’s been good times for me, talking with Emil. Whether he believes me or not. Anyway, he doesn’t believe anybody. Not even himself sometimes.
Just as he’s about to serve me a cup of his coffee and stare at me until he sees me take a sip, I am saved by the bell. The Savarin phone rings. Emil answers it, then hands it to me, saying:
For you.
It’s old Dad.
Your mother called me, he says, gave me this number.
I had called her yesterday and tried to tell her about my western tour. She said come by for tea some afternoon when Harold would be there. He would just love to hear about it, she said. I said I love you Ma, and hung up quickly.
How’ve things been? Dad says.
Not bad. How’s it with you?
Can’t complain. You gonna come by? I’ll split a pint of anything with you, son.
I’ll get there, Dad. I don’t know when, I’ll ring you first.
No, just come. I often don’t answer the phone.
Sure then. You feeling all right? I mean, your health, that sort of thing?
I’m tiptop, son.
You don’t sound tiptop.
I figure I can breathe, that’s tiptop. I look forward to seeing you, son. Lee.
My eyes suddenly tear up when I hear him say my name. He never says my name. Emil sees the tears and smiles. Here I am, dealing with two men simultaneously, you could paste them together, they might make one pretty good father.
I try to say goodbye to Dad, but he’s already hung up.
I sit at the counter for a while, and stare at the surface of the coffee. There are no answers there, only big oil spills, so I ask Emil:
Where’s Cora? You seen her lately?
I’ve been two days trying to ask those questions, and this is the flrst time I’ve been able to.
Not lately.
But she’s around, I hear. Looks good, too.
Why do you say that? She always looks good.
You didn’t see her after that last time she racked up a car. Told you about the accident, just didn’t want to tell you she’d been marked. I thought her face might have permanent scars. But they went away pretty fast.
I want to see her.
I know you do.
You going to do anything about it?
I guess so.
When?
Now, I guess.
He goes to the phone, picks up the receiver, with his back to me dials a number. When the call has gone through, he says hold on for a second, okay? Stretching the cord, he backs away from me, takes the receiver to the kitchen doorway, just manages to make it into the kitchen. He talks softly into the receiver and I can’t hear a word of it. He comes back and says:
She already knew you were back.
I nod, not surprised.
Is she coming here? I ask.
No, she wouldn’t do that. She says to meet her by the old Exxon billboard. Somebody’ll drop her off there. The Exxon board is, oh, about ten miles down—
I know where it is.
I get up and head toward the door, realizing that I’ve managed for once to get away without drinking a single sip of the coffee. Something must be wrong with Emil.
I’ll check with you later, I say to Emil.
If I’m here.
Won’t you be here?
I heard your buddies, the Wheelers, have bought this property, don’t know when they’ll show up.
They’re not my friends.
He shrugs.
Maybe not, he says and pours out my coffee at the sink. I can’t tell whether the rising fumes are from heat or corrosion.
— 13 —
Cora leans against a tree next to the decrepit Exxon sign. She looks slimmer. Her face seems older and, for that matter, prettier. I take the keys out of the ignition, get out of the Mustang, and walk around it toward her. She has her thin arms crossed, and she stares at me noncommittally. I stare back, almost too afraid to talk.
You look, I don’t know, earthier, she says. Your face is leathery.
The outdoor life, I guess.
About all the outdoor life you’d know would be what blows in a car window.
That’s not true, Cora, that’s—
Yeah, you’re right. What do I know? I’ll take it easy on you. I meant to. That just slipped out.
It’s all right.
The day is almost unbearably humid and hot. It feels like the west. Well, it feels like California anyway.
I’m not going anywhere with you, Lee. Nothing has changed that way. And don’t ask for a chance even.
I know all that.
Then what are we doing here right now? I don’t even want to discuss—
We don’t have to. Here.
I hand her the keys to the Mustang.
It’s yours, I say.
She looks at me strangely, disbelievingly.
The wheels, I say. The Mustang. It’s yours.
She stares at the keys, jangles them a bit. She looks over at the car.
It’s more of a wreck than I remembered.
It’s more of a wreck than it was then. But the Mech’s got it running real good again.
She tightens her grip on the keys.
No strings, she says. I don’t even want you riding with me.
That’s okay. No strings, Cora. The wheels are yours.
She takes a few steps toward it, looks back at me.
I’ll probably rack it up in a coupla days. I racked up every car I ever had.
Yeah, I know. I knew that anyway. Maybe you won’t. I have a feeling you won’t.
She stops by the driver’s side door.
I’m taking it, she says.
Good, I say.
Want a lift back to Emil’s?
I thought you didn’t want me to ride with you.
I’ll make an exception to back there.
I’m tempted, but I’m afraid to sit beside Cora, even for a short time.
No, I’ll walk, I say.
Walk? It’s ten fucking miles.
I know. Good to see you again, Cora.
Yeah, me too, guess.
She starts to get into the Mustang, then stands up again.
No, Lee, it is good to see you. You look good. Sound good, too. I really wish we could get together. I wish—but we can’t.
Yeah.
Maybe we’ll run across each other.
Right.
She starts to get in again, then emerges again.
Thank you, Lee.
Sure, Cora.
This time she stays inside the car. She holds onto the steering wheel for a long time, just holds it. Then she slowly puts the key into the ignition, puts the gear shift to P, and starts the car. The motor growls. Out here, it sounds louder than it ever did from inside. She starts to glance over at me, but doesn’t quite make it. Then she leans forward, shifts to D, and the car accelerates, almost lurches off the shoulder and onto the expressway. It’s out of sight much more quickly than I’d’ve expected, than I want. In the waves of heat rising from the road, the car seems to sink into the cement of the road.
* * * * *
The humidity seems to be growing by the second. I need to get walking. There’s so much debris scattered along the shoulder, I have to keep my head down, watch every step.
I have no clear idea what to do now. But I’m happy. I really like having no clear idea what to do. I suppose I ought to go visit Mom and Harold, give old Dad a thrilling and sodden reunion, go swap tales with Emil.
So, what can I do? I can return to the city, get a job. Work hard all day, walk home through fields of dogshit, get frustrated, angry, unhappy, look up Lincoln Rockwell X and let him con me into a new set of wheels in just as bad shape as the last one. No, I don’t think I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll stay on the road. Maybe I’ll go destroy the Wheelers. That’s worth thinking about anyway. Maybe I’ll settle down in the Savarin, learn Emil’s recipe for coffee. Maybe I’ll go back to California, look for Kay and the kids. Maybe I’ll go into business with Anton and Maria. Maybe I’ll compose a symphony but leave it unfinished. Maybe I’ll become chairman of the board of some revived carmaking firm and create the perfect set of wheels. Maybe I’ll fix this ugly cracked highway all by myself. Maybe I’ll find a way to get Cora to come back with me.
At least I’ve got options.
copyright
Portions of this novel first appeared in substantially different versions in Cosmos magazine and in Clarion, an anthology edited by Robin Scott Wilson.
A SET OF WHEELS
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / February 1983
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Copyright © 1983 by Robert Thurston.
Cover illustration by Alan Daniels.
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